Page 14 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“I am he and very intrigued.” He winks at me coquettishly. “Tell me, what exactly is the trouble, Orlando Balfour?”

“It’s difficult to explain…” I hesitate for a moment.

Nicodemus promptly puts his other hand on my shoulder. Even as small as he is, he’s essentially surrounding me in this position. It wasn’t customary, to say the least.

“Then show me,” he says, taking both his hands back again.

I hesitate only for a moment; after all, I didn’t want to frighten this old man. But Aphra sent me, and if she trusted him, so would I.

I pull my glove off slowly, revealing one finger at a time, then hold my hand up between us. Even in the dim light of the shop, it’s quite apparent that this is no ordinary hand.

“How very peculiar,” Nicodemus says, much less alarmed than I expected.

Before I can question the old man’s reaction, he steps on a stool in front of a nearby case and pulls out a book from the very top. MYSTERY is written in bold, golden letters along its leathery spine. The wooden frame swings open to reveal a narrow black maw behind it.

“Follow me, Orlando Balfour,” he says, disappearing into its darkness.

Before I can get claustrophobic inside the corridor, I promptly step into a brightly lit laboratory on the other side.

The room is narrow with book-lined walls. A large table nearly the length of the entire space fills the centre. All manner of bottles and vaguely scientific-looking contraptions crowd the surface. For what kind of science, I can’t even begin to guess.

A fire dances hungrily inside a large hearth. An old-fashioned black pot hangs above it. I can hear its angry bubbling from across the room.

I almost laugh at the sight. This can’t be real. Maybe it was some kind of set?

Nicodemus scurries over to the table and waves me toward him. There, he rummages through stacks of paper, pulls out a comically large magnifying glass, and waits expectantly.

When I don’t move, he pulls a rickety-looking chair in front of him and pats the seat.

“Come now, Orlando Balfour. Don’t be scared of little old me,” he chirps.

I comply, not knowing what other hope I have left besides this strange man inside this strange room.

“Don’t be shy, my man, and let me see your predicament,” he says, removing his spectacles.

When I hold out my hand, he grips it firmly, then proceeds to inspect every surface carefully with the magnifying glass.

To my dismay, it seems that my issue has advanced significantly since last night. The roots that wound around my fingers have disappeared. The pale yellow padding is gone. Now all that is left is deep red muscle, which is peppered by thin white ribbons. When I wiggle my fingers, flesh contracts and tendons pull. At least my hand obeys me still.

Nicodemus lets go of it and places the spectacles back on his nose. “How did this happen?”

“Frankly, I do not know.” I shrug.

“Did you perhaps meddle with something you shouldn’t?” he asks.

“I’m not exactly in the habit of meddling.”

“What do you do, then?” He places the magnifying glass on the table and watches me carefully.

“Nothing,” I shrug again. His staring is making me feel a bit like a child.

“Nothing? Nothing, tra la la?” he says, and I can’t help but laugh. The entire situation was simply absurd. “No occupation?” he continues his inquiry.

“None. I’m but a loafer. An indolent idler.”

“A shiftless dreamer, perhaps? Did you dream too hard?” he asks without judgment or insult.

I stare at him, wondering why the old man has not taken the provocation I offered him.